The Great Glowing Coils of the Universe (20 page)

I think the result is fantastic and I hope to eventually revisit Nulogorsk and its unusual existence in relation to Night Vale. This story also provides a resolution of sorts for Megan Wallaby, who may reappear in
Night Vale
, but as a supporting character.

—Zack Parsons

The riddle says he walks on four legs in the morning. He walks on two legs at midday. And at night he slithers from dream to dream, effortlessly, like the air we breathe. And we love him.

WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE.

In response to the town's steadily declining tourism industry, the Night Vale Tourism Board addressed our town's complete lack of appealing destinations like uncensored art museums, hotels with door locks, and snake-free restaurants.

NVTB executive director Madeline LaFleur said some travelers think they need to see things like monuments or the majesty of nature or spectacular musicals or eat regional-slash-cultural foods in order to have a good time on vacation. But they don't. You don't need attractions to have a good time, she added. Just use your imagination! In fact, come to Night Vale where “We Will Show You Fun in a Handful of Dust,” as the new NVTB slogan says. LaFleur then became transfixed by the midday sun.

“There it is again,” she whispered to a confused crowd. “It's beautiful, so beautiful. Why do you think it keeps circling back like that?”

Good news listeners, the Telephone Service has finally fixed the telephone booth behind the Taco Bell. The telephone that was always ringing and never had a dial tone? You know the one. When you picked it up, it clicked and hissed and sometimes played notes that seemed to come from a music box. You did not recognize the tune, but it was familiar, as if from another time and place.

Since no one uses telephone booths anymore, I'm not entirely sure why they did this, but the telephone booth is working. The Telephone Service dispatched a crew of men who would not be missed. They wore wooden suits, climbed the nearby pole, and clattered around like so many bamboo wind chimes filled with hamburger. After several hours, they climbed down, furtively smoking cigarettes, and departed in their unmarked black van, removing the
OUT OF ORDER
sign from the booth shortly before leaving.

Some say they've seen strangers of varying heights and aura magnitudes speaking into the telephone in a hushed tone, in words that might have been Russian, staring at the horizon with cold determination. And as the strangers all departed quickly, all in separate pedicabs, witnesses reported a detached human hand crawling up the inside of the booth.

Was this lone visitor to the phone booth the young Megan Wallaby? Megan was born as a detached hand of an adult man, so it seems like this was probably she who slowly but desperately picked up the telephone as the sun began to set. We may never know for certain, but at least we know the telephone you'll never bother to use is working again.

Speaking of telecommunication, listeners, I've been receiving some odd text messages. My phone claims they are from former intern Dana, who was trapped in the forbidden Dog Park several months ago and is now traversing an unknown plane of space and/or time. Here are some recent texts from her:

“Found a mountain.”

“Mountain's not real? Huh!”

“Log those!!!”

“Dang it. Lighthouse! Sorry . . . Stupid autocorrect.”

“There's a lighthouse up on the mountain, and atop the lighthouse a blinking red light.”

And then no more texts. It has been several days.

I tried texting back but my touch screen just displayed a photograph of my face that began to slowly rot, the eyes deepening until they were sunken holes, long white hair growing rapidly, insects crawling from my slackened, decayed maw. And then the words
UNDELIVERED TEXT
in all caps below it. I decided maybe this conversation was one not meant to be.

More good news, listeners.

A submarine has arrived from Nulogorsk, a tiny fishing village in Russia. Nulogorsk was a longtime sister city of Night Vale. We shared pen-pal letters and gifts for many years, but beginning in 1983, Nulogorsk stopped changing the dates on their letters. By 1997, it became apparent that Nulogorsk would never stop existing in 1983, and without being able to openly discuss the complexities of Michael Jackson's career arc, Night Vale stopped corresponding. So, for this single reason and no other, the arrival of a Nulogorskian submarine in our desert was unexpected.

The Night Vale PTA and the management of the local Pinkberry released a joint statement, saying the arrival of the submarine from Nulogorsk may represent a renewal of long ago international hostilities, caused by simple misunderstandings over how to use a calendar properly.

Seeking to allay these concerns, the Sheriff's Secret Police's genderless spokesbeing with the smoothly beautiful features explained in that voice that calms animals:

“Decades ago, when you were a child and lived beside the sea, you would go down in the afternoon and stand in the water, warm as blood, and pluck clams from between the rocks. Your grandfather would cook them over his stove until they opened and you would listen to the radio together. The ships would come in the afternoon, piled high with cod and herring, surrounded by seagulls, carrying tales of adventure and peril in the sloshing boots of every fisherman.

“Some things don't come back,” the spokesbeing continued. “They can only travel in one direction, like mountains travel through the centuries. Yes, mountains. You were with grandfather when the voice on the radio rose in alarm. Grandfather stood up. There was fear upon the monument of his face. This was not supposed to happen. Not here. Do you remember the light so bright you could see it through the wall? Then nothing. Then dark. And a ringing telephone. But we are here and now and this is not there and then,” concluded the Sheriff's spokesbeing.

The spokesbeing responded to follow-up questions by cocking their head and slowly blinking their milk-glass eyes like an animal watching an insect crawl across the floor. Further inquiries were directed to the jade statue of a Cat Who Hums Almost Inaudibly in the Sheriff's Secret Police's Secret Garden.

The Secret Police plan to open the hatches of the submarine and look inside at any moment. We'll report back as we learn more.

Listeners, many of you know I have a bit of a delicate relationship with our new Station Management, and recent events have caused some concern for many of you. But rest assured, while management and artists are often at odds about how to run a business, here at the station we all have one thing in common: We love radio.

I just met our new program director: Lauren Mallard. And you know, she is a delight. In fact, she's joining me in the studio right now. I thought it would be a good time to introduce you to the kindest, most gentle manager we have ever had at this station. Lauren, it's great to have you here.

LAUREN:
It's great to have YOU here. I know change is difficult, both for the talent and for the listeners, but our focus is always on good radio. And Cecil, you are the best at good radio.

CECIL:
Thank you. Listeners, please know that I really do think things are looking up. I'm very excited about the new direction we're under with Lauren.

LAUREN:
Well, I can't wait to be more involved. And I just love your show. I've loved every moment of it. I love your informative reports. I love your beautiful voice. I love the way you talk about the town. You clearly love your city, Cecil. It shows in your work. I even love your scientist boyfriend. What's his name again? With his perfect hair, and teeth like a military cemetery? He's always looking into the scientific mysteries of Night Vale.

He even “broke the story,” as you reporters might say, about the transdimensional oranges our farmers had developed. Well, that sure was a good thing he was looking into our oranges or we could have harmed a lot of people on our way to making a ton of money. So very much money. What's a few lives? So much money. He's a good scientist you have there. What's his name again?

CECIL:
Um . . . Carlos

LAUREN:
Right. That's right. Carlos. Okay. Good talking to you. Gotta go! Bye.

CECIL:
Oh, okay. Well . . . thank you, Lauren. Good-bye.

And now a public service announcement from the Night Vale Marine Biologists Association: The ocean is full of things that would like to kill you, and other things that would ignore or not understand you and then eventually kill you because they do not have the same understanding or valuation of life and death as humans. There are still other things that
you
would probably kill simply because you think they are beautiful and you want to possess beautiful things because you believe that beauty and sentience are mutually exclusive. Never go to the ocean. It is a confounding place. It is full of death and strife and terror. We're marine biologists, and
we
won't even go to an ocean, so you know it's bad, the PSA reads. Maybe just take a nap and think about clouds until they find your body. This has been a message from the Marine Biologists Association.

The Sheriff's Secret Police have opened the hatch of the submarine from Nulogorsk. Onlookers describe a curious crack of pressure, as if peeling back the pop-top on a can of old soda, and a smell of something regurgitated. Wisps of steam were observed to rise from the open submarine. The Sheriff's Secret Police drew their daggers and a Junior Secret Detective was encouraged to volunteer to be the first to explore the vessel. There was silence as she climbed through the hatch.

Gentle listeners, the screaming began almost immediately. It was described as a sort of high-pitched shriek that deepened moment by moment until it was only an agonized moan, then rising back up in pitch again, then falling. Onlookers remarked they had never quite heard a scream like that before. Not even that time in the barn.

The Junior Secret Detective reappeared after those few harrowing moments, only she was not the woman who went inside the submarine. Her hair was long and gray and her limbs were withered with age. She tumbled out of the hatch and was taken off to the hospital where she is listed in ancient condition, though expected to fully recover.

Further volunteers discovered the body of an enormous, bald-headed man with some faded flower tattoos and a left arm that stopped in a rough stump just above his wrist.

The Sheriff's Secret Police also discovered a postcard depicting the painted houses and the beautiful clear water of Nulogorsk. Written on the back was a message in Russian. “One adult man, missing hand, and the other items,” it read, according to Google Translate. The other items in question included a rotary-dial phone with no receiver cord, a large tin full of hardtack, a wrapped parcel (which was carried away by a man who was not tall), a thick book (which was carried away by a man who was not short), and a front-page article from the September 24, 1983, issue of the
Night Vale Daily Journal
, written by foreign correspondent Leann Hart. The headline of this article was “Sister City Nulogorsk Decimated by Nuclear Attack; No Known Survivors.”

Listeners, this is simply not true. I had Intern Zvi pull up that very issue, and the front-page article is by city beat reporter Leann Hart, and the headline reads “City Council OKs Book Ownership for Randomly Selected Students.”

Which is the truth, listeners? I cannot comprehend what has happened to our old pen pals from Nulogorsk. Who were we talking to for all those years? Were they destroyed in 1983? I'm going to get Zvi's article to the Secret Police. The correct historical truth must be validated, and all false histories brutally repressed. And until that time, the only truth we will have is the weather . . .

WEATHER: “Offering” by Black City Lights

Well, before the Sheriff's Secret Police could respond to my news article discrepancy, the unconnected rotary phone on the submarine began ringing. The unidentified man in the submarine answered the phone, speaking his first words, in Russian of course. He still has yet to be identified, and no one is certain if he is a survivor or a ghost, but he spoke to someone on the other end.